Intergalactic Priority Mail
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: The real question was, what had Peter's mother been doing that would warrant the effort of tracking him down and sending a letter so far away from Earth? And how much trouble was it going to get them into?
1. Intergalactic Priority Mail

**Title**: Intergalactic Priority Mail

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the world is not.

**Rating**: T/PG-13

**Summary**: _The real question was, what had Peter's mother been doing that would warrant the effort of tracking him down and sending a letter so far away from Earth? And how much trouble was it going to get them into?_ 9000 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-Chosen; Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)

**Notes**: A short series of connected ficlets written for the 2014 Twistedshorts challenge. No intentional comics canon, bar some convenient facts plucked from Wikis; lyric excerpts at the end by Avicii, from "Hey, Brother". Originally posted to LJ in August.

* * *

><p>Buffy frowned as she cross-checked the list of Potentials the Council had released – aka, ditched – back in the 70s with the library of Watchers' journals that had, luckily, been scanned and saved to a secure website before the big boom.<p>

"Found another one," she said, giving Willow a concerned look.

Her friend and fellow co-leader of the new Council signed their names to the latest letter with a flourish, then tapped it with the end of her pen and looked up. The paper folded itself in a shower of gold sparks; then a name appeared on the outside, scrawled in black ink, and the letter disappeared with a pop.

"Another one?" Willow made a wry face. "I guess at some point I should stop being surprised. You had Giles, after all – he couldn't have been the only Watcher that didn't feel right about abandoning their charges. Especially the Potentials who didn't have anyone else to go back to."

Buffy nodded. "I don't think it's good news this time, though; Meredith Quill's Watcher may not have turned in his last journal, but Google found a death notice for her ... dated to 1988."

"Eighty-eight?" Willow eyed the window open to the journal index on Buffy's laptop, then visibly did some counting in her head. "And he still didn't report in? If _he_ isn't dead – and I'm assuming you'd have said if he was – then I bet you anything there's a kid. You remember Robin's story."

"The records kinda dead end with Meredith. But I'd bet you're right. If he got to the paperwork in the pre-dig era, we'd never know." She sighed. "I guess ... address a letter to her kid, generically? And if it goes, we'll at least know there's another heir out there. God knows the Council's blood money can't make up for what they – for what _we_ – lost; but we can't just sit on all these huge bank accounts without trying to do _something_. And they deserve to know what their loved ones' lives were really like, even if they don't believe us."

Willow patted her hand, then turned back to the stack of fancy paper and lifted her pen. "To the living heir..."

* * *

><p>"...of Meredith Quill," Peter read aloud to his mismatched team. "I know no monetary compensation can ever make up for the loss of your mother. However, it has come to our attention that as the child of one of the students who attended our predecessor organization, the Watcher's Council, you may be eligible to claim the sum of her back pay, regretfully not sent to her before her death, as well as certain papers and journals compiled during her term of training..."<p>

"Back pay?" Rocket's ears twitched in interest. "Does it say how much?"

Peter scanned down the rest of the letter, skimming over a lot of vague language that tripped his finely honed bullshit detector. "No, actually. It does sound a lot like one of those junk mail scams, doesn't it?"

"Why would anyone go to the expense of mailing junk?" Drax added his contribution.

Peter raised an eyebrow Drax's way – then waved him off when he saw the spark in the overly-literal alien's eyes. Drax might not _understand_ metaphors, but he was getting better at recognizing them, and even more so at figuring out how to push Peter's buttons.

"No – the real question is, what was she _doing_ that would warrant the effort of tracking you down and sending the letter all the way out _here_?" Gamora put in with a furrowed brow.

"An excellent question," Peter frowned, scanning the letter again. "It doesn't. And you're right – the fact that they found me at all _is_ really weird."

"And you thought your _dad_ was a mystery," Rocket snarked. "Think there might be something in it, then?"

Peter stared at his mother's name in the opening of the letter a moment more, then over at the tape deck where Awesome Mix #2 had been installed since the Xandarians had rebuilt his ship. Then he scanned his friends' faces: implacable Drax, avaricious Rocket, and Gamora, who looked concerned, probably remembering the stunt he'd pulled to retrieve Awesome Mix #1 – and why. He already knew what they'd all say. But they weren't the whole team.

"What do you think, Groot?" he asked the sentient plant form, still only about Rocket's height, but at least finally free of the pot Rocket had rerooted him in.

Groot tilted his head thoughtfully – he really did have a pretty expressive face, for a being made of wood, once you got used to it – and nodded. "I am Groot," he intoned, positively.

"All righty, then," Peter shrugged. "We were between jobs anyway – and it _has_ been a long time since I've been back to Terra. We could even combine it with some data gathering," he nodded to Drax and Gamora. "I heard they had a run-in with some of Thanos' minions a couple years back."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Rocket asked, then crossed his arms. "Besides a little more of a plan? You aren't wanted _there_ by any chance, are you?"

"C'mon, Rocket, I was a _kid_ when Yondu picked me up." Peter rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, and? That's meant to reassure me why...?" Rocket crossed his arms.

"How about you hold your horses while I finish reading the letter, maybe?" Peter snarked back.

"I see no horses here," Drax stuck his oar back in, still digging for a reaction.

Peter sighed, but couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from curling up. Some days, he could hardly remember what his life had been like before meeting the four he now called friend.

But he was about to revisit that past – in memory of his mother, once again.

He wondered just who this 'Willow Rosenberg' and 'Buffy Summers' were, and if they had any idea what they'd really invited to their doorstep by sending him that letter.

One way or the other – he was kinda looking forward to finding out.

-(1/7)-


	2. Addressee Unknown?

The first place Peter directed the Milano when they reached Earth wasn't, actually, the address on the unexpected letter he'd received from two strangers named Willow Rosenberg and Buffy Summers. And not just because he'd been a kid when Yondu picked him up, with a kid's uncertain grasp of geography, and Terran addresses didn't exactly correspond with the galactic standards the Milano's nav system understood – which, how had Yondu even found _him_ in the first place? At least the local computer networks had evolved some; he probably wouldn't have to resort to tracking down an actual, physical map. No, the fact was, there was something besides his mother's final gift he'd been putting off since Yondu finally let him out on his own, and he figured he'd better get on with it before the memory of her last moments faded again and he lost his nerve entirely.

He parked the Milano in the field behind the house he'd grown up in, stared for several seconds at the familiar, rusting old truck parked where it had always been parked in the driveway, then sighed and took his somewhat battered backpack down from its hook. He was lucky it had survived the crash on Xandar, actually – as long as it had been, he wasn't sure how he'd have expected his grandfather to recognize him, otherwise.

"You sure about this, kid?" Rocket poked his furry nose in, watching him stand there with the backpack in his hands. "Whoever this guy is, he didn't care about you enough to track you down in all the years you were gone, so as far as I'm concerned you don't owe him nothin'."

Peter shook his head at the little maniac's idea of cheering him up. "You _do_ realize most of the people on this planet thought they were the only sentient species in the universe until the Chitauri invaded, right? Heck, half of them probably even believe _that_ was a hoax. My granddad wouldn't have had any way of finding me, no matter how hard he tried. He probably thinks I'm dead."

"Then why disturb his peace of mind?" Rocket crossed his arms. "Money. Waiting for us in that New York place. I don't see any reason to keep disturbing _our_ peace of mind with your angst when we can just pick up our units and get our asses back to civilization."

"Okay. First – it's not units, it's _dollars_. Unless America suddenly changed its currency while I was gone, or something."

"Dollars?" Rocket interrupted, wrinkling his muzzle. "What's the exchange rate on those?"

"That's the point – there _isn't_ one," Peter replied, then quirked a faint smile. "And thanks for the out – but I've gotta do this. I don't have much in the way of family since I cut loose of Yondu, except you guys and whoever my mystery father is. Just my granddad – and as far as he knows, I ran away the night my mom died and haven't come back since. He deserves to know what happened to me.

"Besides – think of it as a little extra information gathering," he added, practically. "If the letter was right about my mom having some secret training, he should be able to tell me more about it, so we don't have to rely on public information channels for prep when we go to collect."

"Fine, fine," Rocket put on a show of sighing. "If you gotta. Just don't expect us to wait here forever – I bet I can figure out the coordinates before you get back."

"No bet – but good luck getting the money without me," Peter grinned at him, cheered despite himself as he hit the control to open the ship.

The smile faded again as he reached the front porch and raised his hand to knock. Really, what _was_ he supposed to say? Hi, Grandpa, I'm home?

No – home was the Milano, now. And Gamora, and Rocket, and Groot, and even Drax. This was just – a courtesy call. He drew himself up and knocked firmly on the door.

He'd expected to have to wait a few minutes, knock a couple more times – it _was_ late at night, and Gregg Quill had to be pretty old by now – but he heard the sound of the door unlocking almost immediately, startling him as it swung open. The face behind it was – he blinked as he flashed back on that last day again, the old man's arms dragging him screaming away from his mother's bed – more wrinkled now, the hair gone white, but otherwise the same as he remembered.

"Uh. I..." he started to say, his mind going distressingly blank.

Fortunately, his grandfather was quicker on the draw. "Peter...?" he said, gaping, not even bothering to look at the backpack Peter still clasped awkwardly in his arms.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me," he said.

"_Peter_," the old man repeated, wavery smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Oh, just look at you. You _do_ look a lot like your father. Your mother wasn't wrong about that."

He didn't know what the etiquette was, here; was he supposed to hug, or not hug? Among the Ravagers, anything more than a shoulder clasp would have got him called soft, but – he thought he remembered his grandfather being a more touchy type than that. Hesitantly, he reached out, adding an awkward back pat, and resisted the urge to squirm as the man reciprocated, clinging a little longer than Peter was comfortable with.

"I'm sorry, you must have thought I was dead all this time, but..."

"Dead? No, no, I knew you had to be with your father; especially after the new Council tracked me down and told me they'd sent you one of their letters. It wouldn't have gone if you hadn't been alive. But I sure didn't expect to see you again. Not that it isn't _great_ to see you – but why are you back?"

"Wait, what?" Peter blinked in surprise. When he'd told Rocket this conversation could double as extra information gathering, he'd mostly been talking himself into it. But not only had he already got confirmation that the letter was genuine – it had come with an unexpected gift-with-purchase. "Why would you think I was with my _father_? I didn't even know he wasn't – well, from _around here_ – until a few weeks ago," he blurted, baffled. "Just before I got that letter, actually. Speaking of which, why didn't I ever hear about this Council? What was Mom into that was so secret I never heard of it back then? Was that ... was that why she...?"

His grandfather blinked back, looking equally startled. "But your mother _told_ me she'd sent him a message; and while I have to admit I never _approved_, he didn't strike me as the kind to abandon his responsibilities. If you weren't with him, then..." He stilled, then finally scanned Peter over head to toe the way he'd expected from the start, taking in his Ravager gear, the worn child's pack, the guns on his hips, and the glint of metal tucked away behind his ear. Peter didn't know what he was looking for, but he didn't seem to find it, and his expression was tense and wary as he took a step back across the threshold and opened the door wider. "Perhaps this is a conversation best not held on the front porch."

Peter frowned, then glanced back toward the ship, and finally sighed. As if he couldn't defend himself against a single, aging human three times his age; what was there to worry about? "You're probably right," he said, and shrugged, following the man into the house.

Intent eyes watched him carefully as he stepped through the door – then relaxed, inexplicably, the moment he was inside. "Well. It sounds like we have a lot to talk about," his grandfather said. "Starting, I suppose, with the fact, that I was actually your mother's Watcher."

_Wait ... what_? Peter barely kept himself from blurting again, thrown for a loop for the third time in a single conversation. Not that that was a particularly unusual situation for him; but seldom when the answers had mattered quite this much. If the man his mother had always referred to as his grandfather _was something other than her father_, why had she lied to him?

Was _anything_ Peter had thought he'd known about himself actually true?

"And, I suppose, with the fact that I was kidnapped by an alien and spent the last twenty-six years living on a spaceship?" he replied instead, and was gratified to see as much shock in the other man's expression as he felt.

But once again, the words that came out of his mouth weren't what Peter would have expected. "I thought it was a little strange that you said you just got the letter – considering that they sent it more than a decade ago. It should have arrived almost instantly, anywhere on Earth. I thought maybe another dimension, but a _spaceship_?"

Peter was sorely tempted to pull his old Walkman out again at that; a conversation this bizarre deserved its own soundtrack. Instead, he sighed, then took a step back out the door and waved a hand signal toward the cockpit of the Milano. "Hope you don't mind me inviting some friends to join this conversation – since it sounds like it's going to get a little long, and I'd rather not spend half of it calling bullshit on each other."

The old man's brow furrowed as he opened his mouth ... then shut it again as the others appeared, suspiciously quickly for folks that were supposed to be _minding their own business_, not snooping in on his.

"Ah. I ... see," he said, eyeing the mixed bunch of decidedly not human people Peter called friend.

But ... while he didn't seem thrilled, he didn't seem particularly _surprised_, either. Because of this Council? Or the mystery about Peter's dad? Or ... both?

"Grandpa ... can I still call you Grandpa? Good. This is Rocket – I know what he looks like, but seriously, he isn't a raccoon; and Groot, Gamora, and Drax. Guys, this is... apparently not my grandfather?"

His list of questions for Summers and Rosenberg was getting longer all the time.

-(2/7)-


	3. Postage Due on Delivery

Peter stared up the short flight of stairs to the front door of the place his grandfather had sent him to, and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, thinking.

"Are you all right, Quill?" Gamora asked, frowning at him.

She was wearing the smokin' hot short dress with all the buckles she'd picked up on Xandar rather than any of her more comfortable gear, in deference to their mostly-civilian surroundings, but hadn't made any effort to disguise her green skin. He'd been a little worried about that, but Grandpa had assured him that in New York City, no one was going to notice. Gamora might be his deadliest teammate, but she was also the closest to human norm of the four of them. And what do you know? The old man had been right.

There were other things Peter was hoping he _hadn't_ been right about, but he wasn't holding his breath. Summers and Rosenberg had sent him a letter that had crossed a decade and half a galaxy to reach him, and according to Grandpa at least one of them lived _here_. If he knocked on that door, and one of them actually answered...

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just, gathering my energy, you know? Reviewing what I'm gonna say."

Grandpa had talked a lot about Watchers, and Potential Slayers, and honest-to-Dracula _demons_, and the difference between the Council that had stiffed his mom and its shiny new replacement. Gregg Quill might not have been Peter's maternal grandfather by blood, but he _had_ adopted Meredith when the old Council had cast her loose, and kept protecting her even when he found out she'd been sleeping with what he'd thought was a demon. For that, Peter had made an effort to try to absorb everything the man had to tell him, though the cognitive dissonance had blurred out a lot.

In the end, he'd come away with a little leather-covered notebook filled in his grandfather's hand and a shortlist of questions. With any luck, he'd get rid of both, collect his legacy, and get away again without much hassle. There were so many unknowns in the situation, though; if he'd been offered a 'job' this sketchy back when he'd been with Yondu's crew, he'd have taken the front money and run without a qualm.

Gamora arched a skeptical green brow at him as the silence dragged on. Peter could practically hear her calling him a coward in her thoughts. And she'd be right, as usual. One of the downsides of finally making friends that didn't threaten to eat him every so often: he got away with a lot less bullshit.

He blew out a breath, then pushed open the sidewalk gate and headed up the brick steps. The part of his mind that would always be a Ravager noted the narrowness of the rowhouse, the regularly placed windows piercing the pale siding on every floor, and the placement of the apertures on the neighboring buildings, cataloguing possible exits; the rest of him was busy calculating the odds that things would go smooth.

Peter paused with his hand raised, though, not quite following through with the knock, as the sounds of a loud conversation filtered out through the wooden door.

"...more worried in my _life_, Dawn," a clear, angry female voice came through first: as forceful as Gamora, not scratchy yet with age, probably somewhere in his age bracket. "I _told_ you to stay away from anything alien 'til we find out more. What _possessed_ you to ambush Thor? You're lucky he wasn't upset; the last confrontation between a Summers and an angry god didn't go so well, if you recall!"

Another female voice – younger, he thought; maybe a little petulant – answered as Peter listened on, intrigued. He raised a finger to his lips to ward off Gamora, turning an ear toward the door.

"Oh come _on_, Buffy. I didn't choose to be what I am any more than you did. The difference is, _you_ had a Watcher. What do I have? A couple of musty old prophecies? I wanted to know more!"

Peter exchanged a glance with Gamora, then raised his hand again – and took an abrupt step back, nearly toppling down the stairs, when the door flew open in front of him and a whirlwind with a long, shiny mane of brown hair nearly ran him down.

"And don't bother – whoa! Sorry, uh..." The owner of the hair reached out to grab his arm, at the same time Gamora reached for his other arm to keep him from falling, and Peter took a sharp, stunned breath as _everything_ flashed green, burning like Greek fire through his veins and leaving the taste of smoke on the back of his tongue. The only time he'd ever felt anything remotely like it before had been on Xandar, when he'd clutched a certain Stone in his fist and channeled it with the help of his friends to destroy Ronan.

"..._shit_!" the woman gasped, abruptly letting go and taking the green with her. "Who are _you_?"

She was about the same height as Gamora, and maybe a few years younger than he was, with big blue eyes currently wide with shock. "Peter Quill, uh, Meredith Quill's heir?" He coughed, then held up the hand clasping his grandfather's journal, bookmarked with the letter that had brought him this far. "Are you Buffy Summers?"

"Uh – no; no, I'm Dawn, her younger sister. You're not – sorry, I know this is an indelicate question, but you're not, like, actually _crazy_ or anything, are you?"

Peter studiously ignored Gamora's choked snort as he replied. "Depends on who you ask. You're not, like, secretly holding an Infinity Stone or anything, are you?" he said lightly, duplicating her cadence.

Her jaw dropped again, and then her eyes slid over to take in Gamora, and she took a step back, raising her voice. "Uh, Buffy, one of the lost heirs is here? And I think I may have spoken too soon..."

-(3/7)-


	4. Marked Return to Sender

Buffy Summers scowled at the man sitting across the kitchen table from her.

Was the right term still 'man' if he was only half-human? Was that speciesist? Or was she overthinking things? She couldn't think what else she'd call him, anyway ... or the woman with him, who was definitely all _woman_.

Gamora vibed a lot like a Slayer to Buffy, actually, whatever her species of origin might be. Despite the vibrant green skin, red hair, and eye-catching markings on her face she pinged first as _attractive_ rather than as a natural threat to Buffy. Except maybe for making her feel dowdy in her jeans and worn tee shirt, with her hair busy escaping from its cleaning-day bun.

She'd decided to tentatively trust her instincts on that one, at least until Willow arrived to verify. Dangerous her visitor probably was, but not a Slayer's rightful prey like those Chitauri had been. Peter 'Starlord' Quill, on the other hand, with his absolutely ridiculous 'suggestion'? Not so much.

"This is my _little sister_ you're accusing of wielding some all-powerful world-destroying artifact," she reminded him. "I've been protecting her her whole _life_ from threats you can't _possibly_ fathom, and it's never come up before? You have _no_ idea..."

"No, I think _you're_ the one who has no idea," Quill replied earnestly, sitting forward in his chair and stabbing a finger at the table top. "I know what I sensed when she touched me; and I know what I heard when I walked up to your door. If she's not carrying an Infinity Stone – whatever name you might know it by – then what did she want Thor's advice about? And why'd that upset you so much? I'm telling you, even the likes of Asgard can't hold one of these things for long – you remember the glowy blue cube the rumors say was behind all that mess a couple years ago? _That_ was a Stone; I know, I've talked to an expert. If Thanos had had _any_ idea there was another one on Earth..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Trust me, it wouldn't have been pretty."

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "Why do you even care, anyway? If you aren't lying about the fact that you've been off-planet for the last twenty-six years. Or that you're even Peter Quill. How do I know that you didn't come here to kidnap my sister in the first place? It's not like you'd even be the first."

Quill leaned back again in his chair, thrusting his hands through his golden-brown hair in frustration. Then his expression abruptly cleared, and he patted at the front of his jacket where he'd stowed the book he'd been carrying when he walked through the door. He pulled it out, then tossed it out on the table. She could see the heavy cream paper of one of the old magically-addressed "heir letters" tucked into it like a bookmark, as good as a photo ID all on its own. Damn.

"Here. It's my grandfather's last Watcher's journal; he said you'd be missing it. It might not say much about where I've been, but it'll back up the why. I didn't come here for your _sister_; I came for the money, and for my mother's memory. But I've _touched_ one of these Stones before, and I can't just let it slide. If Prince Thor mentions to _anyone_ what she talked to him about..."

Dawnie had been leaning against the jamb of the kitchen doorway, watching their guests with troubled eyes; she stepped forward at that, arms crossed, and cleared her throat. "It won't matter. Because that's _not_ what I asked him about," she said, flatly. "I asked him about Mjölnir. How many other super-powerful artefacts are out there ... and if any of them ever incarnated directly rather than binding to a hero."

Buffy threw an alarmed look at her sister, as much for the content of her statement as for the fact that she was mentioning it in front of two mostly-strangers. "Tell me you didn't actually say..."

Dawn shook her head at her. "I didn't mention any names. But it didn't matter anyway; he said he'd known a few to _possess_ hosts before, like that Aether thing that caused all the trouble in London, but not, like, _become_ human. Or Asgardian. Or whatever." She shrugged.

Gamora sucked in a breath between her teeth. "The Aether is another Infinity Stone."

"Wait, wait, wait," Quill said, glancing between Buffy and Dawn, eyes widening in noticeable shock. "Incarnate. That doesn't mean what I think it means, does it?"

Buffy chose to deflect the question. He was too smart by half for how frat boy he acted. "You know what I am. Don't you think I'd have noticed if my sister was carrying something like that around?" she said, scornfully. "I don't know what you _think_ you quote-unquote _sensed_, but it is none of your business. I'll be happy to give you your mother's things; they're at Council Headquarters. But you can shut up about my sister any time now."

"Well _too bad_, because one of those things? Can destroy a whole galaxy, and I just-" Quill glanced at Gamora and cleared his throat. "_We_ just got through saving it. I don't want to go through all that again just because you didn't feel like listening to the guy with the experience. What do I have to do to prove it to you, anyway?"

Buffy let the silence lie there for a minute. What could she say? Dawnie's secret was one of the few the Scoobies had _never_ shared beyond their immediate circle; she wasn't about to change that for a self-admitted space pirate, no matter how passionate and earnest he sounded.

Then Gamora cleared her throat, delicately, and looked away from Buffy ... staring directly at Dawn. "Green. When he touched you – I sensed it, too. The light was _green_, was it not?"

"Yeah," Quill replied, dryly.

"And you asked him if he was crazy."

Dawn swallowed, nodding jerkily. Buffy almost interrupted, then – but her little sister held up a hand, and Buffy was curious where it was going, too.

"One of the Infinity Stones is – or should I say _was_ – green. It was known to be sentient ... and had the power to warp souls," the alien woman said, still staring at Dawn. "Living or dead. And ... it was rumored to also be the gateway to an idyllic pocket universe."

The blood drained out of Dawn's face ... and Buffy stiffened in her seat. Now, _that_ skated close enough to the description of the Key to take seriously. What the hell had those monks really done? Or ... had the Key done _through_ them? They would have to call a Head Council meeting, stat.

Except ... if the Key really was this universe-breaky Infinity Stone, and as many bad people were after it as it sounded, and the news got out to even one person who shouldn't know...

She took a deep breath. "Just how big and bad _is_ this Thanos guy, anyway? We killed the last demon god that came for ... for the Key," she half-admitted.

Quill's gaze was still on Dawn, but he answered immediately. "The biggest and the baddest," he said. "Those Chitauri I heard about? Were the least of his foot soldiers."

Gamora wet her lips. "I was ... in his service, for a time. He slaughtered my parents in front of me. Destroyed my planet, and turned me into his weapon." She hadn't shifted her gaze, either. "I vowed never to stand by while he did such a thing, ever again."

"Buffy..." Dawn turned huge, distressed eyes toward her sister.

Buffy stood up, chair scraping noisily, and slammed her hands on the table, drawing her guests' attention back to her.

"I'm listening," she said, grimly. "Tell me more."

-(4/7)-


	5. Scheduling a Pickup

Rocket took one look at Quill's and Gamora's faces as they came back aboard the ship and just _knew_ something had happened that he wasn't gonna like.

"I am Groot," Groot agreed, pulling his roots back out of his pot and stepping down to the deck to join him.

"Tell me about it," he muttered in reply.

It figured. This 'job' had been sketchy from the start. Inexplicable letters promising units they wouldn't have to work for, landing on a planet full of xenophobes already on Thanos' radar, family secrets coming to light ... Rocket might not have much personal experience with families, but he was damn near an expert on the rest of it, and every last little thing about the trip had spelled trouble.

Try telling Quill that, though. So he'd spent most of the trip to Terra building a few extra security measures – not that he'd had a chance to use them, yet. Unfortunately.

"So," he said, crossing his arms as he planted himself in their fearless leader's path. "How'd it go?"

Quill glanced at Gamora, then over where Drax was sitting at the table, then back to Rocket and Groot. "Well," he said, "I got good news, and I got bad news. Good news is, we got the money."

"In local currency? Or something we can actually use?" Rocket asked, reminded of their conversation about 'dollars'.

"I said _good_ news, Rocket," Quill snorted. "Don't worry; I got it in trade items."

"I am Groot?" Groot commented, skeptically.

"Well, he _is_ a Ravager," Rocket shrugged. "I think we can trust him to know his valuable trinkets, at least. But if that ain't the one-two punch, then what _is_ the bad news?"

"Well..." Quill hesitated, glancing at Gamora again. "We sorta ... tripped over another Infinity Stone."

"Are you well, friend Quill?" Drax frowned. "We did not see any evidence of destruction."

"Not – _literally_ tripped over, more like ran into. Because it's not exactly, um, stone-shaped at the moment? Or destructive? But I touched it; and trust me, it's definitely a Stone," Quill asserted.

All of Rocket's fur stood on end. "_Another_ one? On _Terra_? That's an uncomfortable coincidence. Don't tell me you volunteered us to take this one to the Nova Corps, too?"

"Not ... exactly?" Quill rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, in one of those self-soothing gestures that seemed to reduce people's impression of Rocket's intelligence when _he_ did it. Pah.

"Then what _did_ you volunteer us for?"

Gamora frowned at Quill and took over the explanation. "The ... keepers of the Stone would like to meet with us. All of us, in order to gauge our trustworthiness." She looked a little put-out at the idea of submitting herself to someone else's idea of judgment; and he didn't blame her.

"And _then_ they're gonna turn it over to us to take to Xandar?" Great.

"Not ... exactly," she echoed Quill, wearing a conflicted expression.

"And...? What do we gotta do to get the rest of the story, drag it out of you with a gravhook?" Rocket stared at both of them in disbelief. "You want us to abandon ship on this backwater planet and put ourselves in the power of a bunch of _strangers_ who brought you here in the first place with a _magic letter_, without any more information than that? You _do_ realize how ridiculous that is? It sounds like you got yourselves brainwashed and your new overlords sent you to sucker the rest of us in, too. Not on your life!"

"Would not washing one's brain cause damage?" Drax commented, frowning at Quill and Gamora as though looking for evidence of such injury.

"Exactly," Rocket chuffed a laugh at the confluence of meaning and metaphor.

Quill sighed at that, then glanced back over his shoulder through the still-open hatch. "Told you," he called.

Another pair of humies approached at his call, both pale, a tallish woman with a long, glossy brown mane and a shorter, slightly older one with straw-colored hair tied back in a tail. Their scents were similar enough they were probably siblings, but there was something about the tall one...

Rocket caught himself leaning forward, nostrils twitching in instinctive response, then shook his head. "Who are _they_?"

"Rocket, Groot, Drax; this is Buffy Summers..."

"She of the signature?" Drax asked.

"Yep; that's her. And this is her sister, Dawn." Quill put a hand on the shoulder of the taller one. "Dawn, Buffy; these are Rocket, who is _not_ a raccoon..."

"_Also_ not cute, so forget whatever thought just passed through your minds!" Rocket interrupted as he saw the way both women's eyes widened when they caught sight of him.

Quill rolled his eyes and continued again. "Groot..."

"I am Groot!" His friend waved his branches in the guests' direction.

Unfairly, _this_ interruption just got a smile out of the jerk they called their captain. "And Drax."

"Uh ... pleased to meet you?" The one called Dawn gave them all a nervous wave.

The other Summers – she was supposed to be some kind of superwarrior herself, wasn't she? – didn't bother with the polite lie; she just stared around at all of them, eyes cool and assessing. A little like Gamora's, before she'd relaxed a little. "This is your whole crew?"

"What, you think we could fit _more_ of us on a ship this size?" Rocket scoffed. "And why do you even care?"

"Because if I'm going to let my sister go with you..." she began.

"There's no _if_ about it," Dawn objected. "I'm _going_, because if anyone's gonna be able to tell me..."

_What?_ How had they even got from _Infinity Stone_ to _humie passenger_? "If you _think_ I'm gonna let a backward Terran roam around in _my home_ with an Infinity Stone in her pocket..." he added his own two units.

"Dawn!" Summers barked, ignoring him.

"This is _my life_ we're talking about; that means it's my say," Dawn glared at her sister, then met Rocket's gaze. "But if it makes you feel any better, it won't be in my pocket."

Drax stepped forward before Rocket could come up with a sufficiently appropriate response, an intent expression on his face. "You would leave to protect your family," he addressed her.

"I would," Dawn nodded, swallowing but not backing away.

Drax seemed to sense her wariness, because he stopped short of crowding her and simply held out a hand.

"Dawn..." Summers spoke again, posture shifting as though she wanted to intervene.

Dawn ignored her and warily placed her hand in Drax's.

Drax closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, then released her hand and stepped back. "_You_ are the Infinity Stone," he announced, with all the firmness inherent to a species who don't use metaphors.

Rocket gaped at him; then over at the others. "You have _got_ to be joking."

"You think I would joke about this?" Gamora raised a sharp eyebrow.

No, she wouldn't, would she? Quill maybe, but not her.

"I _knew_ I wasn't gonna like whatever it was," he sighed, resignedly.

"I am Groot," his friend commiserated.

Yeah, life was about to get even more interesting aboard the Milano. He might get to break out those new security measures, after all.

-(5/7)-


	6. Filing a Domestic Claim

"So," Dawn swallowed nervously as she stepped through the hatch, clutching the straps of two duffle bags that held all the worldly goods from Earth she'd probably see for the next who knew how long. "This is going to be my life now. Traveling on a spaceship named after an actress."

"Hey," the ship's captain spoke up, shrugging as he followed her in. "You're the one who wanted to come along. And I was only nine when I left, okay? She was hot. Her name stuck in my head. What better name for a ship than that of a beautiful woman you can't forget?"

"Is _that_ where Quill got the name from," the short, furry, _not_-a-raccoon who was part of the crew replied in an amused tone of voice. Rocket was seated on a stool in the corner of the Milano's main gathering room amid a pile of interesting-looking mechanical bits and pieces. "Shoulda known. For a guy that shook the dust of his planet off his shoes as a kid and never looked back 'til now, he's sure invested in Terran culture."

"Standing _right here_," Peter objected, good-naturedly. "And, c'mon. Who doesn't like Terran culture?"

"I am Groot," the slender tree in the corner replied. Dawn had been told that that was all Groot ever said; and he really did sound exactly the same as he had before the translator implant. Or was it zie? She knew that some types of flowering trees did have genders, though they were usually both. Groot had been introduced as 'he', though, so she guessed she'd go with that until someone said otherwise.

"Shut up about the music already," Rocket muttered grumpily in response.

Dawn also been told that Rocket and Groot had been together the longest of the crew, and that Rocket always seemed to hear more underneath the three words; it would be interesting to see if she could figure out why without being too invasive. She'd published more demonic-species research than anyone since Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had gone down with Angel's team in LA; hopefully, that experience would give her a springboard to finding a place among the stars while she finally investigated her own origins.

"Speaking of music. _Please_ tell me you at least updated your collection while you were here," she added, turning back to Peter.

Dawn got holding onto the few things you had left of your childhood. See: Sunnydale crater. But she wasn't understanding enough to listen to the greatest hits of the 70s and 80s forever. She'd seen the sound system on her previous visit, and made sure to track down one of those tape adaptors with an aux cable attachment to plug into her iPod. The rest of the crew might even thank her, judging by the amusement on Gamora's face as the green woman entered last, pressing the button to close the hatch.

"Are you kidding?" Peter splayed a hand over his chest, affronted. "Nothing will ever top the Awesome Mix; but I missed _twenty-six years_ of tunes!"

Translation: he probably picked up more tapes by the same artists. Well, maybe she'd be able to broaden his taste? Or convince his crewmates to go along with her; either one.

He wasn't bad-looking himself, actually: a year or two older than Buffy, with short golden-brown hair, a bad-boy vibe to his leather gear and facial scruff, an expressive face, and surprisingly earnest eyes for a space pirate. Somewhere between a Spike and a Xander; hard not to like. But he had his own Buffy already on board, and Dawn was not up for throwing herself against that kind of brick wall ever again.

Speaking of brick walls, though; Dawn felt her cheeks flush as Drax approached to greet them. Between the blue-green skin, the intricate red-dyed scarification all over his body, and his impressive musculature, he made her feel petite and feminine, a strange experience for her as the taller, gawkier, geekier Summers. He'd also been the only one of the crew to actually make her feel welcome the day she'd first stepped foot on the Milano, despite being nicknamed The Destroyer. He reminded her more of Anya than anything, something she appreciated more now than she had as a kid, and had been nothing but honest and gentle with her from the start. She found that refreshing.

Okay, and a little hot, too. Maybe there was something to all that teasing about Buffy's preference for nonhuman men being genetic.

"Welcome, friend Dawn," he said, with a slight bow of his head. "Tell me, is it true that Terra is a planet of outlaws? Quill insists that it is; and yet, I have met with none on this visit."

"Depends on where you are, I guess? And how you define outlaw," she managed to reply.

"As one outside the law," Drax replied, as if that should be obvious.

Dawn couldn't help but smile at that. Her picture of 'Starlord's' character came clearer with every word from his crew, but there wasn't any meanness behind their razzing; that in turn made her feel more confident about her choice to sign on as a paying passenger. Getting Willow to double-check their story had helped too; but truth-testing didn't tell you much about someone's character. Trustworthy didn't necessarily mean fun to hang out with, and heroes could be jerks as much as anybody else. So far so good here, though; so she wouldn't spork Peter's bragging entirely.

"Well, there has to be law in order for people to be outside of it, right?" she said, regaining her confidence. "So I wouldn't say we have a planetful. But the country we're in? America was _founded_ by people who defied their government, and we've sort of had a tradition of respecting outlaws ever since, especially if they're breaking the law to do the right thing."

"See?" Peter crowed, pointing at her. "Told you guys."

"But who determines what is the right thing?" Gamora frowned. Dawn might have taken it for mocking, if it hadn't been for her serious expression. Was she testing Dawn's opinion?

"That's the tricky part, isn't it?" She shrugged. "I stole some stuff when I was younger, and I certainly thought I was justified at the time, but the truth was I was mostly just grieving and mad at my sister. Helping blow up the mayor of our city when he turned himself into a gigantic snake and tried to eat us, though? _That_ was the right thing to do." Though technically, all she'd done was help carry bags of fertilizer – and she probably hadn't even been real yet. But they didn't need to know the details.

"Yeah, it's the stuff between the extremes that's harder to figure out," Peter commented dryly, then smirked. "Though I think in absence of consensus, we could probably send a message to Rhomann Dey, what do you say, guys?"

Rocket snorted. "I still say wanting something more than the guy who has it – or being mad at him, for that matter – is an _excellent_ reason to steal his stuff."

"But enough about that – how about we show you where you'll be staying, Dawn?" Peter cut him off, hastily. "After you're settled will be _plenty_ of time to start getting into comparative morality and the nitty gritty details of exactly what kind of bomb you used to blow the snake up – right, Rocket?"

"You're such a killjoy sometimes, Quill," Rocket replied with a sigh.

Dawn chuckled and followed Peter's lead, with a nod to Drax and Groot as she passed them. Gamora followed; and Dawn saw why when they crossed the threshold of the room. There were two beds in the room, one clearly belonging to someone by the look of the locked cupboard beside it and the decoratively placed weapons secured to the wall above.

"Space is unfortunately limited inside the Milano," the assassin explained, with a pointed glance at Peter. "Unless you have an objection, we will share this space."

Odds were about even that they actually needed to double up, versus just wary of a stranger in their midst. Either way, though, Dawn didn't mind. "I've lived in a house where we had people bunking down on every spare inch of the floor," she shrugged, dropping her bags on the free bed. "So as long as you're okay with it, I'm good. Hopefully, I won't need to bother you for too long."

"Your plans may not bear fruit," Gamora cautioned her. "If you truly are the fifth Infinity Stone to reveal itself to the universe, the sixth cannot be far behind – and Thanos will surely seek to collect them all. There is no place safe enough to stand against him; you can only hope to outmaneuver him."

"Wait – fifth? I thought you said only three had been seen," Peter frowned at her.

Gamora sighed. "That was before I sought out information about Thanos' invasion here, as you suggested. Very few things can counteract the power of an Infinity Stone – but there was another gem in play that day, visible in the staff that was used to shut down the Tesseract. From the news reports, its behavior sounded like that attributed to the Mind Gem. And if that is the case, four of the Stones have changed hands in a very brief amount of time, and each of those encounters has involved Terrans."

Peter looked disturbed at that, but he visibly shook it off as he turned back to Dawn. "Well. I guess getting you off the planet was a good first step, then!"

The whole ... _immensity_ of the revelation of the Key's true identity was still recent enough to threaten to drown her in panic at times; this was another one of those times. But she choked it back as best she could and gave Peter a wan smile. "I'll try not to endanger you guys any more than I have to, though. The Nova Corps, or that Collector guy you mentioned – I'll get out of your hair as quick as I can."

"Oh, I don't know. How could we call ourselves the Guardians of the Galaxy if we don't try to protect the beings who live in it?" Peter waved that off. "Besides, it's not like some of us aren't on Thanos' hit list already..."

"...Likely all of us," Gamora continued, meeting Peter's gaze, "as we've all touched a Stone, and these events have made it clear that has had a lasting effect. Thanos doesn't tolerate rivals. So you're welcome to stay with us for as long as necessary."

"Oh, I get it," Dawn managed, feeling slightly less shaky. "Reduced to the role of playing bait again? I can handle that, I think."

"Great," Peter replied, clapping his hands together. "See? You're fitting in around here already."

-(6/7)-


	7. Media Mail (Credits Roll)

**Hey brother,  
>there's an endless road to re-discover.<strong>

»

Dear Xander:

Thanks for the jump drive! I thought I'd taken a ton of music with me, but my new shipmates keep the stereo going _all the time_, and now that they have more than two cassettes to listen to they all have _opinions_. Even – maybe especially – the dancing tree.

Don't make that face; I'm being serious! He's _adorable_.

Gotta say, it doesn't say much for the state of the music industry in the rest of the galaxy, though. Alien worlds, alien tunes, right? But none of them ever bring back any soundfiles from their missions. Or maybe it's just that Peter seems to be the only one of them to have a childhood passion to be nostalgic _about_, so they just run with it? They don't talk much about their lives before they met up, especially Drax and Gamora, but that just makes me wish all the more that Mom was here to see this.

I even miss Buffy. (Don't tell her I said so.) And of course, all of you guys. Say hi to Renée and the littles for me. Oh, and tell Willow the tracking crystal in the necklace works great; your letter only took two weeks to get here!

It's so amazing out here. You think the stars look gorgeous from Earth, you should see them from space. And all the _people_. There's so much to learn!

I'll keep you posted on what I find out.

Listening to my new tunes as I write this,  
>Dawn<p>

»

**Hey sister,  
>know the water's sweet but blood is thicker<strong>

»

Dawnie:

Okay, okay, I give. You were right to go. I admit it.

I just wanted you to be safe. I'll _always_ want you to be safe. It's just hard to admit that might not be with me anymore.

Thor showed up asking for you a few weeks after you took off, with one of his friends. I think she might be Asgard's version of a Slayer? We talked shop for a while. They didn't say whether it was Thor's friend Stark or Sif's brother of the super-keen eyes who sent them here, but they weren't all that unhappy to hear you'd already left. Something is definitely up. So tell your new friends they'd better watch your back out there.

The news isn't all bad, though: I finally found a copy of Mom's hot cocoa recipe. I don't know if aliens can drink it, but I thought it might be a taste of home, at least for you and Quintus.

There's a letter enclosed for him, too; his granddad finally sold the land in Colorado. Giles is happy to finally have a sane member of the old guard around to talk to, but I don't think he's all that fond of Giles. Something to do with Giles' mom? I didn't ask; I _don't_ want to know.

Spike and Illyria finally turned up again, too. _He_ sends his love. _She_ says it's about time you achieved your true strength.

She's probably right. Just – achieve it carefully. Please?

Love, your overprotective sister,  
>Buffy<p>

»

**What if I'm far from home?  
>Oh, brother I will hear you call.<strong>

»

Spike, you dork,

Thanks for the offer, but it's really not necessary. Even if Illyria _could_ somehow portal you out here, trying to scare the pee out of my shipmates won't go well. Gamora is more badass than Buffy, Rocket would probably try to blow you up with one of his 'security measures', and Groot is _made_ of wood. Think about that for a second.

And no, you can't just threaten Drax. He's got super tough skin; you'd break your teeth on him. And it's not like anything's going to happen there anyway, he's still grieving. I remember you after Buffy, and Buffy after you; I'm not, as Peter would say, one hundred percent a dick.

Speaking of which: I forgot to stick the enclosed in with my last letter to Buffy. Pass it along, would you? Peter had a bunch of questions he meant to ask that got derailed because of my issues. I've been talking to him about the whole Slayer-adjacency thing, but some things would be better coming from her.

Really, I'm _fine_. No existential crises, I swear. It's not like I didn't already know I used to be some all-powerful MacGuffin that could theoretically destroy the universe! It's just that it means a lot more now that I've seen more worlds than just Earth.

Thanks for the movies, by the way. Do I even want to know how many were pirated? (Grin.) It took Rocket like, five seconds to tweak the Milano's software to display them, and Peter's been holding movie nights ever since. (Drax was a little confused at first, since he's all about the literal, but it's been helping with his comprehension of the whole metaphor thing.) The 80s action oeuvre has been a really big hit, but the Disney collection is getting a workout, too. Not many happy childhoods in this crowd.

Speaking of childhood memories: did you really have to include the new Star Wars trilogy and Crystal Skull? Peter was so traumatized, he whined worse than Andrew. (It was great.)

Still your Niblet,  
>Dawn<p>

»

**What if I lose it all?  
>Oh, sister I will help you out!<strong>

»

Little D:

Got your message. Here's the spellbook you asked about; Willow says it should help with your noncorporeal alien issue.

Don't worry, Buffy's fine. Just away kicking ass with Sif, so I'm checking her mail. They've got some epic bromance going on – she's starting to smile more again.

Just say the word, though, and you know she'll beg, borrow, or steal her way across the Rainbow Bridge to get to you. And we'll be right behind her. We've missed you around here, girl.

Stay five by five,  
>Faith<p>

»

**Oh, if the sky comes falling down for you,  
>There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do.<strong>

»

[THE SCOOBIES & THE GUARDIANS WILL RETURN]


End file.
